Over and Over
by Blank-Picture
Summary: Lovino was sure that those would always be the best days of his life. And the worst were the days when Spain would leave again. The days when Lovino would remember why he ever felt miserable in the first place... ONESHOT. Human names.  Little Lovi


**So, I tried a weird writing style here. I don't really know, just read it and see for yourself. **

**I know reviewing seems like a bit of a task once finished, but even the smallest message can make my day, so if you can find the time and bother, I would really appreciate anything.**

**Enough of that, here you go... **

* * *

Lovino sat on the vast space that was Spain's floor, clutching a small wooden box with picturesque tomato vines engraved into the surface. Antonio had given it to him. A simple goodbye present before he had upped and gone away again, exploring this "new world" Lovino had heard so much about. He had heard it was dangerous, with battles and war, but he had also heard of the beauty and wealth which enraptured so many. Well, it must be pretty goddam special, what with everyone spending so much time there.

Especially Spain. He was always in the New World these days. Lovino didn't know what he did there. He didn't want to know. He was afraid of what he might find out. He didn't know if Spain was good or bad in it all, if he was right or wrong. All he knew was that Spain spent a hell of a long while there.

That bastard had been gone for weeks now. He was always gone for weeks, then he would come back and smile and hug the little Italian and say he was sorry, and Lovino would always try and be mad, but in reality he was too dammed pleased to see his guardian safe, after so long. To see him after the countless days of waiting at the foot of the door, spilling hot tears down reddened cheeks, wailing for the only man who knew how to stop those floods. To see him after spending all of his days desperately running around the huge house to curl up and sob in some little nook or cranny which reminded him especially of Antonio. To see him after so many troubled nights full of twisted nightmares, enveloping his mind in visions of blood and death. Just to see him.

So when he came, he would try to be angry. Try so hard to pull his usual little pouting face and shout at him for making him wait so long, but the only thing his face seemed to want present was the biggest smile Lovino could pull, beaming ear to ear in joy. The two of them would collapse there on the floor, laughing and crying together. On the same floor Lovino sat on now, which felt much bigger and colder than he always remembered it.

When he came back, he wouldn't stay for long. He could only sacrifice a few days, but those two or three days were the times which Lovino would clutch onto, never ready to let them end. They were the only days where he could honestly feel happy for the whole day long, allowing the Spaniard to dote on him without a single complaint, trying to help him cook the dinner, or clean the house. He was never bored or upset when Antonio came back. He never got night terrors when he was curled up in the strong, warm embrace of his protector each night, gentle Spanish lullabies sending him into blissful slumbers.

Lovino was sure that those would always be the best days of his life. And the worst were the days when Spain would leave again. The days when Lovino would remember why he ever felt miserable in the first place.

Every time, he thought that he could be strong enough. He could wait till next time he was back. He wouldn't cry. Not again. Not this time. He would stand in the doorway, watching Antonio loading his horse and getting ready to leave, watching him prepare with a stiff upper-lip, sobs building up behind his eyes, but not allowing them to escape. He would tell himself that he had to stay strong for Spain, but he could only ever stay strong for so long. Antonio would walk over to the boy and kneel in front of him, bringing up a hand to stroke his hair in a loving gesture. Lovino could never look at him. Wouldn't allow himself to.

But then Antonio would say his name. He would say it so gently and warm, laced with so much love. Lovino would look up, doing his best to not look at that face, his own countenance tense with the attempts to keep in any tears. Spain would call him again. He would look him in the eye. At this point Lovino would throw away all of his pride in favour of collapsing into a strong Spanish torso in a heap of tears, pleading with him, asking him to stay and not go, where he might get hurt. To stay here so he wouldn't miss him.

Antonio would take the boy up into his arms and hold him until the sobs subsided into whimpering huffs and murmurs that begged him to stay. He could only hold the boy tighter and promise a swift return. A swift return for his _Lovinito._ He would reach into his pocket and present a gift, be it a pendant, a picture, a book or a simple wooden box with engravings on it.

Lovino would take it in his tiny hands put it aside, throwing himself once again onto the Spaniard, telling him that he doesn't want a present, he wants him. He wants Antonio.

Antonio would smile sadly and lean down to kiss below each eye, chasing tears away that Lovino had forgotten were falling, and then whisper into his ear, _Te amo__.__Volveré__. (I love you. I'll come back.)_

Lovino believed him every single time. Those words stopped his tears in their tracks and he would squeeze his guardian once more, going onto his tip-toes to reach his mouth to the tanned ear, words in choked sobs that only he would ever hear, _Ti amo. __Non farsi male. (I love you. Don't get hurt.)_

Before leaving the warm embrace, he would plant a small kiss on the soft, Spanish cheek, and then step back. Antonio would stand, leaning down to give Lovino one last bit of affection, kissing the top of his head. _Adiós, mi Lovinito._

And then he would leave, unable to look back to see the small child slowly breaking down again, leaving their goodbye as it was, close and personal, not wanting to ruin it by shouting from afar. He would ride away, spiralling dust clouds behind him and Lovino would watch until he couldn't see a trace of him anymore, the only image of him softly resting at the back of his mind.

And Spain would have left.

Gone back to the new world, leaving Lovino feeling obsolete and desolate, an empty feeling consuming him whole. He would run back to the door and clutch Antonio's parting gift against his chest, a treasure above anything else.

For days afterwards he would float around the huge house, clutching his precious memory in his arms. He could hardly sleep, feeling the lack of warm arms and soft melodies sung to him every time he tried to. If anyone were to look in, he would have seemed almost ghost like, a transparent quality overtaking his normally feisty aura. But no-one ever did look in, and so he drifted alone through the halls, finding places to huddle up and hide in or to simply lie down and think about nothing.

* * *

Lovino sat on the vast space that was Spain's floor, clutching a small wooden box with picturesque tomato vines engraved into the surface.

He fell back onto the unforgiving marble floor, staring up at the ceiling and perhaps thinking too much. He wanted _someone_ to be there. He felt so alone. Who would come to visit anyway? Feliciano was never allowed out of Austria's house and Spain was still away. Who else was there? Nobody. He would be alone until Antonio was back. Which wouldn't be for a while. He was so alone.

Lovino held his breath, trying to will his emotions away, but was unsuccessful as the first choked sob escaped his lips, echoing around the hall and making the house feel even more empty. He rolled onto his side, still clutching the little wooden box, raising one hand to swipe continuous tears away, frustrated at himself. Soon after, the tears ran quietly, no shuddering gasps or sobs, just salty water tripping over his skin onto the cold marble below.

He felt empty again. And tired. He loosened his hold on the box and ran his lightly fingers over the patterns, nails searching for an opening. He found it and flipped the lid open and waited. At first he though nothing was going to happen, that he had broken it. His eyes grew wider and wetter and another wail threatened to release itself until chimes started to flow from the box.

He calmed and grasped the box again, falling drowsy with the familiar tune of the lullaby as it played over and over. Each note broke the painful empty silence surrounding the child, making the house feel more like a sanctuary and less like a prison, keeping him from what he needed.

Lovino became hypnotised by each chime of the Spanish lullaby. It wasn't Antonio, but he could hear his voice, feel his warmth and inhale his sunny scent if he squeezed his eyes shut tight enough and imagined.

If anyone were to look in, they would see a small boy. A boy with tear tracks trailing down his face, his body curled around a small wooden music box. His eyes squeezed shut tightly, trying to imagine what wasn't there.

But no-one ever did look in, so he lay there alone, tears still falling, waiting for the only one who knew how to stop those tears, drifting somewhere in-between the metallic sound of a music box and a voice playing in his head.


End file.
